He has these studious square-framed glasses on that bring out the angles of his cheekbones even from here, and thatbeard.I’ve always been a beard enthusiast, and this one is magnificent: not too long, well groomed, and a rich brown colour that’s slightly darker than his tousled hair.
His hair literally looks tousled, like he just ran his fingers through it after hopping out of bed with a sultry co-ed before striding his way across campus to teach a course on erotic undertones the works of Shakespeare. There’s something inescapably scholarly about him, despite the denim and the mountain man facial hair.
“Mon dieu,Monroe, he is so your type.”
In truth, he doesn’t look anything like the guys I’ve dated. The handful of exes I’ve collected over the years never followed much of a pattern—aside from being noncommittal man-children who were all weirdly dependent on their mothers—but none of them had that ‘Is he moving in slow motion or is my brain just doing that to make this moment last longer?’ effect that this guy does.
His good looks aren’t even the most eye-catching thing about him; there’s an intensity to the way he stands with his chin pinched between his finger and thumb, watching the workmen point out various features of the room. There’s a hidden energy masked behind his stillness, a kinetic force you sense rather than see, like the threat of a riptide lurking beneath calmer waves. He reminds me of one of my best professors in school. He’d sit with steepled hands, patiently listening to his students ramble on about whatever they read on the SparkNote’s entry forAnna Karenina, before jumping out of his chair to call them out on their bullshit.
I had a huge crush on that professor, so maybe Roxanne’s not too far off in saying denim guy is my type, but he’s definitely not a type I have experience with.
My relationships have all been duds, just packs of seeds I hopefully sprinkle onto freshly tilled soil and nurture for weeks on end, only to watch some runty little weed poke its head up and then wither a few days later. My mother says I have a habit of taking on boyfriends as ‘projects’ and that I like to ‘seek fulfillment by helping others reach their potential instead of working toward my own.’
That’s what you get having a former psychologist for a mother.
The man in front of me doesn’t look like he needs any help on the road to Potential Town; everything about him announces he’s already there.
“I think I know that guy.”
Roxanne’s declaration startles me back into the present. I realize we’ve both moved so close to the door we’ve almost got our noses against the glass. I step back and rip my gaze away from beardie to give her an incredulous look.
“Youknowthat guy?”
She might as well have just told me she’s real tight with Zeus and that they hang out all the time on Mount Olympus.
“Well,ofhim,” Roxy amends. “I’ve seen him at the Nom Noms. I think he owns some fancy club in the Old Port or something. They won their category this year.”
‘The Nom Noms’ is a big Montreal food and beverage award show that started up a few years ago. People in the city get to vote on things like Best Tapas and Most Creative Cocktails. The cafe and microbrewery chain Roxanne is a director for won Best Craft Beer back in January. Taverne Toulouse has been long-listed for a few different categories over the years, but we’ve never actually gotten enough votes to be invited to the event.
“A fancy club, huh?”
The building in front of us isn’t big enough for a club. I’m musing over what his prospective plans could be when Roxanne mutters, “Merde.We’ve been spotted.”
There’s no time to make an awkward dash back up the street. The calm of the sea has been broken, and the riptide is coming straight for us.
Beardie pulls the door open and greets us with an expression that’s more curious than annoyed.
Piercing blue eyes, I can’t help noting.
In his case, it’s not just a cliché; his irises actually feel like they’re fracturing me, chipping away at my edges to see what they can find underneath.
“Est-ce que je peux vous aider, Mesdames?” His deep voice asks if he can help us with anything.
“I thought I recognized you,” Roxanne blurts in French after a moment of silence. “You don’t happen to be the owner of Cavellia, do you?”
His eyebrows rise briefly above his glasses, and then his lips twist in the hint of a grin.
“I think this is the first time I’ve been recognized in public by someone I don’t know—unless, of course, I do know you? In which case, I’m extremely apologetic.”
His accent is softer than the broad, guttural syllables of Québécois French. There’s something European in the way he lets his tone twist around his consonants and linger on the vowels.
“I don’t think we did much more than shake hands,” Roxanne tells him. “I was at the Nom Noms this year. I work for La Bareille.”
“Then we must have met, but allow me to shake your hand again anyway, Madame...?”
“Roxanne Nadeau,” she supplies, slipping her hand in his outstretched one.
“Julien Valois.”
